-Sweat-

Image used: sweat1

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters; I just see Emmy's pics, get perv'd out and write sweaty drabbles.

This is not beta'd, so, please pardon my mistakes!

Huge thanks to Lo21 for pre-reading ;)

Rated M for language and some ice cold lemonade mix.


= Edward =

Sweat - Noun: Salty fluid secreted by sweat glands.

Verb: to perspire, especially freely or profusely.

According to the dictionary sweat can either be a noun or a verb depending on the circumstance at hand.

Well, I am currently covered in sweat because I'm fucking sweating prolifically.

So in my situation, sweat is both a noun and a verb.

And only I would be giving a shit about it at the moment considering the situation I am in.

But that's because I'm a fuckawesome, multi-tasking motherfucker.

Literally.

Underneath my body lies a hot piece of ass that's melting by my penetrating gaze and the sweltering Arizona air. Those are the key ingredients to drive Isabella Swan wild; add the scorching sun and some shirtless gardening to the mix and you get a very horny Isabella.

She's Mikey Newton's wife and mother to their four children. He's at work and the kids are at school at the moment, and I… well, I was supposed to be mowing the lawn at their house. I was hired three years ago maintain the landscape gardening in their uptown residence and I've been going to their house once monthly to tend to Isabella's shrubs, trees… and other needs.

When I first thought about becoming a landscaping gardener I never realized how much demand there would be for my services, especially how much of my services would actually be required.

I assumed only rich ladies fell for their gardener on Desperate Housewives, right?

Wrong.

Every freaking cougar in the Arizona socialite circle has the hots for yours truly, and I don't mean to come off as conceited, but these women practically eye-fuck me while I'm busy making their yards look unique.

Yet I don't care for any of them, not even for Isabella. She's beautiful and has a rocking body, but I am not one for settling down and having a bunch of kids like her or her lady friends.

Kids are so not on the radar for me.

I almost had an aneurism when she popped out her last kid; her youngest daughter, Carlie, was born with dark auburn hair, almost like mine, but Isabella told me that when she was born, her hair was that color, too… Carlie looks exactly like her mother, so I don't worry about it anymore.

Besides, Isabella's married, so would I really be such a masochist and look forward to future heart fail?

I think so not.

What she and I have is fun, adventurous and thrilling; it satiates my adrenaline need and I get off from hot, passionate and rough sex.

Because that's the way Isabella likes it.

The first time I came to work on her garden I almost came in my pants. She was wearing a diminutive white bikini and was basking in the sun's rays, looking smoking hot as she lay on a chaise by her pool. She wore designer sunglasses with rhinestones, or some shit like that, encrusted on the sides, hiding her eyes from me.

I couldn't tell if she was checking me out or not, and that frustrated me because I wanted to be able to tell if she was being affected by me as I was by her. It didn't take me long to figure it out, though.

Once I removed my white wife beater, she invited me inside the house for some ice cold lemonade… yeah, that was some lemonade.

In a matter of minutes I had her pinned against the kitchen wall, fucking her roughly against it as she pulled my hair and begged me to bite her neck. Guess she has some naughty vampire fantasy or something, because she's always begging me to bite her- and I happily comply.

As we made our way to the guest room, we tumbled upon some furniture and even broke the glass of a picture frame that contained a photo from Isabella's wedding. I saw it as an omen for her marriage, but it wouldn't be because of me.

I mean, seriously, how can you expect a marriage to survive if your husband called himself Mikey? And did I mention that he's almost in his forties? Yeah, I'd ditch my husband, too.

I try not to think of him while I'm fucking his wife, and I bet Isabella doesn't either because she's always moaning my name loud and clear when I'm fucking her.

Just like right now.

Her ankles are resting on my shoulders as I grip her hips and pound into her restlessly, over and over. Our clothes are scattered on the floor of the guest room, around the bed; they were tossed there unceremoniously while we undressed each other in our haste to fuck each other.

We never made it here the first time we had sex, and we didn't go just one round, either.

Our bodies are slickly covered by sweat, making the sound of our fucking intensely loud in the small room. Isabella's hair is sticking to her forehead, framing her chocolate eyes that are silently begging me for more.

And then, she speaks, asking for just that.

"Oh, God, Edward, deeper… I need to feel you deeper," she pants.

"Get on your hands and knees," I say, as I pull out of her.

She complies, spreading her legs apart and raising her ass just a bit higher while she lowers her upper body to the bed. I place a hand on her lower back and take my cock in the other, aligning it to her entrance. In one soft push I am inside her and she's fully laid on the bed with my legs straddling her thighs, gasping and panting from the sensation of having my cock thrusting into her from that angle.

Yeah, it feels motherfucking good for me, too.

I thrust into her harder and deeper as I reach for the lube in my jean's pocket; I spread some on my fingers and circle her puckered skin before thrusting a finger into her.

Suddenly, things are about to get a lot messier… and sweatier, too.


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